I'll Wait For You
by hetaliaxfanfictions
Summary: After World War Two, the Allies get Western Germany. But what happens to the east? Prussia is taken by Ivan Braginsky, Russia, and is torn unwillingly away from his only family: Ludwig. Struggling through endless torture, Gilbert has to make it back to his brother. But when the wall falls, will he die with his nation?
1. Chapter 1

" _NO!" Words tumbled out of his mouth uncontrollably. "Ludwig! Bruder!" Shoving his way past soldiers, their guns blazing, he tripped over the dead, scrambling to find his brother. After all, Ludwig was the center of his hope. Yet as his sight turned red, and as he looked upon the bodies littered across the floor and at his red-stained hands, his last shred of hope and sanity dissolved._

" _No," he whispered, his voice hoarse. He fell to his knees like a puppet with cut strings. The stench of death surrounded him, but all he could think of was Ludwig. Ludwig, Ludwig, Ludwig. His brother, his world, the young boy who annoyed him. The fearless yet foolish warrior he trained. The young man who started the biggest war in history. World War Two. He tried to warn Ludwig. He did. Yet as the sound of bullets erupted, and an endless fountain of blood splattered the cold, metal ground, all he could do was remember. Remember how he begged, how he begged and begged. Endlessly, he tried to prevent Ludwig from doing this. From starting it all again. Didn't that foolish boy learn the first time? The first war? But his idiot of a brother ignored him. "I can do this," Ludwig had said. "I won't screw it up again." But at that time, as he looked into his brother's eyes, he no longer saw the young bothersome boy. The innocent newborn nation who looked up to him. No, as he looked into those sky-blue eyes, he saw bloodlust. Revenge. And in the end, the blue sky turned red, and black clouds rained blood. Now, this war was coming to an end, and he feared of the future. What will happen to him? No, not to_ him _, what will happen to Ludwig?_

 _Lost in his thoughts, he didn't notice when a large man came up to him, an aura of power radiating from the man. With blonde-white hair and a blood-spattered scarf, this man could not_ be _a man at all. No, the man was a nation. And as he snapped back into the present, he realized this country's identity. The one and only. Russia. Scrambling on his back, fear etched across his bleeding face, he tried to get away. But no, the nation placed a filthy boot on his chest and leaned down, smiling a too-happy smile that sent shivers down his spine._

" _Well who do we have here?" Russia said happily, his evil grin spreading even wider. "Nice to see you again, Prussia."_

* * *

"Hey! Watch where you're going, man!" A stranger shoved into him as he walked by, snapping Prussia back into the present. Gilbert sent him a death glare, his eyes narrowing and his pointed teeth turning into a snarl, which resulted as it always does. With shaggy white hair and crimson red eyes, most people are afraid of him. Warnings would flash in their minds: Freak. Animal. Monster. After all, that's what he was. _If people think of me this way,_ Prussia once thought, _then I guess I should live up to their expectations, right?_ And that he did.

"I-I m-m-mean," the stranger stuttered, suddenly frightened, "I-I'm s-sorry, s-sir." He scrambled away; bumping into people as he frantically tried escaping the fearsome Prussian. Once out of sight, Gilbert shoved his pale hands into his pockets and sighed. Watching his breath in the bitter winter wind of Eastern Berlin, he tried to escape those damn memories that clouded his thoughts. It may have happened years ago, but to him, it felt like yesterday. The day he was taken by Russia. The day his brother Ludwig, or West Germany, was ripped away from him. After his parents died, Gilbert was alone, but he had one person: Ludwig. He loved—no, not loved— _loves_ Ludwig, but after those filthy Russians built the Berlin wall, he never saw him again. Damn it, he didn't even know if Ludwig was _alive._ After that, of course, he was tortured. Put through Hell by his captor. As he walked down the streets, the light from a nearby lamppost illuminating his face, you could see the cuts. The unhealed, bleeding cuts and bruises.

Across the street, a mother stepped in front of her daughter, who couldn't be more than five. She glanced worriedly at Gilbert, who honestly looked like a murderer. Sending his signature smirk, he flashed those blood-red eyes, and the mother gasped. Now walking faster, she took her child by the arm and pulled her out of sight. But that's fine. He's used to this. The stares, the cautious whispers. Everything. But today, he was done. Just _done._

Gilbert kicked open his house door forcefully, or as he liked to refer to it, his prison cell, and threw off his clothes. He didn't bother brushing his teeth as he threw himself onto his rock-hard bed. He couldn't fall asleep, and it wasn't because of his house and bed conditions. No, it was those damn memories. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Ludwig. And every time he remembered, a little piece of his heart broke off. Now, his heart was no more than shattered pieces of glass, except for a tiny spark of hope: Ludwig. That one day, he _will_ find his brother. One day, he _will_ escape from Russia. And with these thoughts he finally drifted to sleep, only to be dragged into another horrible nightmare.

* * *

 _Chains bounded his hands behind a cold, metal chair. Gilbert struggled to break free, but the metal was too strong. Sweat bubbled at his forehead, his crimson eyes wide and frantic. All of a sudden, the door slammed open and closed soon after. A shadowy figured stepped into the cold room, not allowing the light to reach his face. But judging from his size and the powerful aura radiating from him, Gilbert could tell who it was. The man stepped into the light, revealing himself. It was his captor, Ivan Braginsky. A creepy smile crept onto his face as he leaned down, resting his hands on the armrests of Gilberts chair._

" _Well, well, well," the personification of Russia said slowly in a thick Russian accent. "Looks like the Allies took your brother and left me with you. Shame, is it not? Having your brother ripped from your grasp. Oh, but we will have so much fun together, da? After I'm done with you, I doubt you will be seeing him again."_

 _Gilbert leaned forward as far as he could until the chains wrapped tighter against his wrists. "Fuck you." He spat directly into Ivan's face. Suddenly angry, Ivan raised a gloved hand and whipped it forward, whacking it across the Prussian's face. A bright red hand mark appeared, almost as red as his eyes, but it didn't seem to faze him._

" _Now," Russia smiled, cheerful again, "That teaches a lesson, da? Be a good little ex-nation and pay attention. See, I am going to ask a few questions. All you have to do is answer them. Easy, da? And if not," Russia paused to pull out a nearby cart. On it were sharpened knives, a .47 caliber, a belt, and a few other tools. "Well, if not, I guess you will have to – how should I phrase it? – face the consequences. Let's begin, shall we?"_

* * *

Drenched in sweat, Gilbert lurched into a sitting position, his heart beating like a frightened rabbit's. He took slow, deep breaths, and rested his head softly on the rock that was surprisingly considered a pillow. The hole in his chest expanded with each of these terrible nightmares. It was something indescribable, something no one has ever felt before. An extreme pain, worse than any injury you can think of. It was like having a thousand knives stabbed repeatedly into your chest, then moving to your head. It was like having each of your limbs torn off slowly. It was like having your heart ripped out of your chest while it's still beating. Except this was worse, more mental rather than physical.

He still remembered that day. The first time Ivan tortured him. Every day of torture, he chanted a single mantra: _You're awesome, you can do this. You're awesome, you can handle this. You're awesome, you'll get through it_. And shockingly, he managed. But it could never be worse than the pain of losing Ludwig. No, that was unbearable. Cuts and bruises and slashes can heal. But you can't fix a shattered heart with Scotch tape.

Almost as if on cue, he felt a stabbing pain in his chest. Coughing, he doubled over, rolling off of the bed and onto the floor. Tiny hands were ripping at the shattered pieces of his heart from inside, a burning fire rapidly spreading throughout his entire body. His head spun, and his lungs closed up. No, it couldn't be. He was an _ex_ -nation, he couldn't be feeling this. But it was happening. His former capital…something was going on. This kind of pain only happened when something violent and big is going on in a country's capital. Prussia wheezed, trying to catch the slightest bit of air. Berlin, something was happening in Berlin. Clutching his chest, he grabbed on to the bed post and struggled to his feet. He staggered out of the door, and a burst of light pierced his eyes. The smell of smoke filled his nose.

"Holy. Fucking. Shit." Gilbert gasped, running – no, not running, - _stumbling_ through the streets to the heart of Berlin. Something was happening. His thoughts went to one thing: Russia. _Goddammit, Ivan! What the fuck are you doing?!_

The closer he got, the stronger the smell. A fire? No, but what was _causing_ the smoke? His mind was fuzzy and burning from extreme pain, but he was able to figure out one thing: construction.

No. No, no, no, _no!_ That's why! He felt something cutting through his heart, splitting it in half. God fucking _dammit!_ What was that maniac _thinking?!_ Frenzied thoughts went berserk in his mind, scurrying like a million rats in an attic. Only half-thought words flashed behind his mind: Russia. Ivan. Civilians. Death. A _wall_.

He made it to the center of Berlin, right on the line between East Berlin and West. Of course, being _Prussia_ , he was on the East.

Tears sprung to his eyes, and his head spun faster and faster like a Ferris wheel on steroids. The blue sky was filled with smoke from construction. White flashed behind his eyes daringly, and he felt as if he was going to pass out from the excruciating pain. Soon, he spotted it. The construction of a wall. But not only did he see a wall being built, he saw _red_. _Blood_. The blood of his people, his former _children_. They were trying desperately trying to cross the wall before it became too late, but the Russians were shooting them down. _Blood_. It was splattered across the ground, the wall, and the buildings. _Blood_. Was Ivan fucking _insane?!_

He felt like he was going to pass out. The pain, the confusion, the freight of his people. But his head whipped to attention as he heard a voice. A _familiar_ voice.

"Gilbert! Gil! _Bruder_!" Ludwig called from the West of Berlin, desperate to get to the Prussian. From the way Ludwig limped, clutching his chest, he knew that Ludwig felt the same searing pain that burned a fiery inferno inside of him. Gilbert stood from the ground, stars dancing behind his eyes. But right before Ludwig crossed the line, a huge hand clamped around the back of Gilbert's collar. Gilbert staggered to a stop, wheezing and gasping.

"Where were you going, friend? You were not trying to leave just yet, da?"

And with that, Gilbert's sighted turned white, and his eyes rolled back into his head as his body collapsed to the blood-soaked road.

* * *

Russia clicked his tongue, and the eyes of the dreary Prussian flew open. He was in the _room_. The floors were still splattered with his old, dried up blood, and the stench of it filled his nostrils, but the room was the same. Home sweet torture.

As Gilbert regained consciousness, he noticed certain things. The pain, for one, was dulled. His body ached from aftereffects, but it was faded. His heart still felt like it was split in half by a steak knife, but it was still there and beating. But the emotional pain, that tightly coiled knot in his chest, _that_ was still there.

Gilbert licked his lips and prepared himself for what was about to occur.

* * *

So sorry that this chapter is short! I promise the others will be longer. Anyway, Please review! Every one of them makes me happy!


	2. Chapter 2

It hurt.

Everything hurt.

He's going to die.

All his life, he thought he would die from various things: with his country, in the war, depressions. But never had he thought he would die at the hands of Ivan. Chained, bounded, with no escape. Never had he thought Ivan would be whipping a knife across his face, his chest. Putting bullets in non-fatal places to cause pain. But here, now, with blood gushing from his exposed skin, he thought he would die. Ivan will push this too far. He wasn't worried about death. No, Death feared _him_ , not the other way around. He was worried about Ludwig. If he knew his brother, and he did more than anyone, even Feliciano, then he knew that his brother would be devastated. Devastated to the point of no return. To the point where death would be more suitable than life. He didn't want that for his brother. But that wasn't the only thought going through his mind at the moment. Occasionally, it would flip back to pain. Oh, the excruciating pain. Sometimes it would flicker to Ivan. To what he would do to him if he could. He would make him suffer, just like Gilbert is right now. He would torture him slowly, but never kill him. He would take his family before his eyes; kill them, and then move on to Ivan himself. He would make him feel the pain of his heart dividing in half.

But for now, his hands were bounded and he was sitting in that same, cold and metal chair.

"So, Prussia," Ivan spat, his smile dropping as he glared at the bloody figure that lay before him. "Were you trying to escape? Trying to get back to your darling brother, da?"

" _Nein_ ," Gilbert gasped out, struggling to get the word to form. His lungs were closing up, so breathing was a difficult task for the aching Prussian. His head spun from the lack of oxygen, and words were just too difficult to say. Unfortunately, this was not the answer Ivan wanted.

Russia lashed the knife across an open spot on his cheek. It was perfectly placed: not too deep, but deep enough to cause more pain, not too long, but long enough to stretch from the corner of his temple to right in between his lower lip and chin. Gilbert gave another cry of distress, but narrowed his eyes and scowled at Ivan.

" _Fick_ … _dich_ …" he wheezed, blood oozing from his new, open wound. Russia clicked his tongue and shook his head disapprovingly. He lowered the blade down to Gilbert's chest, giving a deeper, slower gash diagonally down his stomach and abs. Gilbert threw his head back, clamping his eyes shut and gritting his teeth to block an agonized scream from escaping. Sweat broke out on his burning forehead, but he was unable to wipe it away.

Ivan placed the knife down back on the cart and took out the belt, frowning. "You do realize that you are making me do this?" He questioned, tilting his head. "Da, this is for punishment. If you just admitted to doing these things, I would consider cutting these…sessions…short. But, no, you resist." He leaned down; aligning his face with Gilbert's wheezing one. "Let's try again, da? Were you trying to escape? To get to Germany and the Allies?"

" _J-Ja_ ," Gilbert said reluctantly. Ivan smiled, but still raised the brown leather belt he held in his hands. He brought the metal part past his head then brought it down forward with brute force.

Gilbert let out an agonized scream, yelling from the obvious pain. A red welt formed on his exposed chest, over the various slashes from the knife he endured before. Ivan shifted the belt into position in his bands, signaling that he wasn't finished. He raised it yet again and whipped it down fast, almost drawing blood, but not quite deep enough to do so. Gilbert let out another cry of pain, throwing his head back.

"Now I believe you have learned a valuable lesson, da? We are finished –" Ivan paused at Gilbert's sigh of relief, and narrowed his eyes. " _but_ I think I shall leave one more reminder of today." He reached for the .47 caliber on the cart. Ivan clicked the gun ready and aimed at Gilbert's open thigh. Gilbert bit down and prepared himself. He squeezed the trigger.

A gunshot.

A scream of pain.

A door opening and closing.

Silence.

* * *

Gilbert woke up to rays of light piercing his eyes. His wounds had somewhat closed, and he seemed to have passed out from the pain. Gilbert appeared to be back in his bedroom –no, _prison cell._ He groaned as he sat up, letting out a deep yelp when he shifted his leg. _Fuck…the bullet…_ Clutching his leg in place, he tried to sit up. He could see the bullet inside the hole; thank God it wasn't too deep.

A glare shot him in the eye, and he looked at the nightstand beside his bed from where the light reflected off metal. On it were metal tweezers and a knife, with pain killers, a towel to bite down on, and very few bandages. _The bastard thinks he's being generous, huh? Bet he just wants to keep me on the brink of life._ Gilbert shrugged then winced with a quiet "Shit!" at the sudden pain of doing so. _Better than nothing._ He reached over slowly, shifting his body into a position so that movements wouldn't hurt too much. Carefully picking up the pain killers, he made a swift movement of gulping them down dry. He shook his head and waited a few minutes to let them kick in.

Reluctantly, he lifted the towel and knife, placing the cloth between his teeth. With a shudder, he brought the knife down and dug into the hole, desperately trying to bring the bullet up to the surface. He clenched his teeth hard, squeezing his eyes shut and grimacing. But eventually the bullet was almost out. Panting, he placed the bloodied knife back on the nightstand, along with the moist towel. He brought the tweezers to the hole and cautiously clamped down around the bullet, pulling it out slowly. Grimacing in pain, he threw the tweezers back on the nightstand and rushed to pick up the bandages, hoping to stop the oozing blood.

Finally, he was done. A dull throbbing pounded in his leg, and he looked over at his night stand. On it was a picture frame of him and Ludwig, laughing, while Feliciano played in the background with Lovino.

He smiled gently, picking up the frame and brushing his calloused fingers against the picture of his brother. "But one day," he whispered. "The wall must be destroyed. All I want to do is see you again." He placed the picture back on the nightstand and rested his head on the sad excuse for a pillow, gazing at the stained ceiling. "Brother…I'm waiting for _you_ …"

Gilbert woke with a start, sitting upright sharply then slowly leaning back down, grasping his throbbing leg. He blinked his eyes, adjusting to the light of Sunday morning. Sunday? He glanced over at his clock. Sunday! Yes!

He has few days where he is allowed to roam freely: Fridays and Sundays. Grinning, he shot out of bed, carefully landing on his strong leg, then gently placing the swollen one down. He pumped his fist in the air, grabbed his Iron Cross, and smiled with a loud " _Awesome!_ ". He limped towards the door, not bothering to eat breakfast – _Pfft_. As if he _had_ food to make breakfast – and smiled into the sun.

He gradually made his way towards a tree and picked up some sturdy fallen branches. Using tape he found under his bed, he duct-taped the sticks to form his version of crutches. Flashing his famous smirk, he limped out and onto the streets, pushing shaggy white hair out of his eyes.

His "awesomeness" faltered for a minute as he looked around. Frowning, he observed his former population. Oh no. _Mein Gott, this isn't good_. He felt a couple of _pang_ s in his chest, and finally realized what they were from. People sat huddling together on the sides of the street. Their clothes – if you could even _call_ them clothes – were shredded. To him, they seemed more like rags. The only food they had was in their hands: a few slices of stale bread. Over by the corner of Müggelheimer Damm, near Down Town, he saw two men fighting over a few scraps of bread. One of the men had a little boy, blonde hair, blue eyes, hiding behind him. The father gave up and pleaded in German. Gilbert could make out the words and translations.

"Please," the man gasped. "It's for my son! He hasn't eaten anything in days! He's sick and he needs food!" Almost to prove the father's point, the blue-eyed boy started coughing, hard. He covered his mouth with a white cloth, and when he pulled it away, red blood splattered it. He gulped and looked at the man with the bread with wide pleading eyes. The man's expression softened sympathetically, and he handed the scrap of bread to the boy, who devoured it in seconds, handing a small piece to his father, then to the generous German.

" _Danke_! _Danke_!" the father thanked the man, then nudged his son.

" _D-Danke_ ," the boy whispered, his voice hoarse. The kind German smiled, then turned and walked away.

Gilbert felt tears spring to his eyes. _So this is what's happening to my people._ As he continued to walk with his homemade crutches, he saw more and more events fold out in front of him. Men arguing, starving dogs were scavenging for food. His people were living in absolutely terrible conditions.

The personification of a nation feels certain emotions at different times. For example, when the Russians began building the wall – the Berlin Wall, people called it – he felt his heart being divided in half. Such painful events can harm the personifications in certain ways.

Gilbert's eyes widened as he came to the realization of this. His heart was divided in half. Literally split into two. No doubt Ludwig was feeling this as well.

Just the name of his brother stabbed at his heart, but he shook it away as he began comprehending the situation he was stuck in.

Countries are very similar to normal people: when something physically harms them fatally, they have a strong chance of dying. Being shot in the head, for example. It can kill a human, and can also kill a nation.

But their injuries happen mainly based off of events. The Berlin Wall split his heart in two. This…this was an extremely fatal condition, rarely ever happening nowadays. It immediately kills a human, and should have immediately killed himself. His thoughts dawned on the answer. There were two things keeping him alive: his people, and Ivan.

Gilbert let out a bitter bark of laughter. _My life is in the hands of that fucker. Can things get any worse?_ Actually, they can, he realized. If his people die, and Russia lets go of controlling him, he can die. He probably would. There was a small chance of his heart healing, but…that's nothing. A less that 1% chance. A 0.00000000000000000001% chance, more accurately. Hell, he didn't even have a _nation_ to begin with.

The gears in his brain spun furiously, working hard. So hard that he came to the deepest realization of all: Ludwig. He and his brother shared Berlin as their capital. But currently, it was divided with the Berlin Wall, splitting his heart apart. But if Berlin was Ludwig's capital too, doesn't that mean Prussia's brother felt the same?

This caused Gilbert to stagger for a moment, desperately clutching his crutches so hard his knuckles began to turn white. Ludwig was feeling the same. Gilbert put a spare hand to his heart. He was strong. He could handle this. But can Ludwig? Germany had been known for his strong, hard armor he wore constantly, but Gilbert knew him better. He knew what Ludwig felt _inside_ , not how his war-driven shell felt. Ludwig wouldn't be able to bear this as well as Gilbert could. He began to sweat nervously. _What if he's hurt? Mein Gott, what if the Allies are treating him the same way?_

Gilbert lost the desire to roam around Eastern Berlin and staggered back to his prison cell. He threw open the door and sat down gently on his bed, his eyes darting as his brain worked up situations that could be happening: Torture, pain, devastation, and God forbid, _death_.

He had to stop this. He had to bring down that wall. He had to force himself out of Russia's control.

And there's only one possible solution that Gilbert can think of.

He has to kill Ivan.

* * *

 **AN:** this chapter was short too. AGHHHHHHHHHHH! The chapters will vary short to long, but if you don't like this, please review and tell me. I'll try my best.

So sorry I had to publish this a week later. My schedule is always busy, so there will be one chapter per week. Again, I'm sooooooo sorry about this delay and all of those to come. If it helps, think of it like a TV show. One episode per week. One chapter per week. Follow, favorite, or keep checking up each week for a new chapter!

PLEEEEEASE review! Every one counts! Favorite, follow, and review! I'll try not to disappoint!

-Gilbert


	3. Chapter 3

Kill Ivan?

Yeah, right.

Killing Ivan is like taking on five fully grown male bears while wearing 50 pounds of fish. That's not just impossible, that's _beyond_ impossible. Who would be crazy enough to even attempt it? No one. Except maybe one country who's too full of himself to care about consequences. The one and only Gilbert Beilschmidt.

Gilbert sat on the edge of his bed, his mind working furiously to develop a plan, any plan, to take down this strong powerful country. Yes, if he had his Teutonic Knights with him, he wouldn't need a plan. He could march up to Ivan and Ivan would get down on his hands and knees and practically _beg_ for mercy.

Gilbert smiled lightly, bitterly. Oh, the Teutonic Order. How he loved being the leader of that. The thrill of the fight, the challenge. Back when he had his nation, he almost ruled the world. Everyone knew about him, feared him. People and nations would shake with overflowing fear when he approached. He could get anything and everything. Compassion? Feelings? Who had time for _that_? Certainly not this albino. Nothing could get in his way. He had no weaknesses, a strong army, a reputation. He had land, he had colonies, he had territory. He had subjects, he had citizens, he had servants. He had it all. Until that one day. The day the Teutonic Order fell.

The Prussian has a clear, crisp memory. For anyone to get that feature, it just _had_ to be him. Everyone wants a perfect, almost photographic memory, right? But what about when you've killed, when you've tortured? When you've been raised high only to crash down further than before? When you've gotten everything you've ever wanted only to have it ripped out of your hands? What about then?

But nevertheless, he still had a clear memory. And he hated it. If he could erase everything from the past, everything and anything, he would. He remembered the day he fell, he remembered it so clearly. The war, the bloodshed. He thrived on it, felt the rush of thrill and excitement whenever his hands where splattered with the blood of a fallen enemy. But he came crashing down from that high when….well, when he started to lose. They were pushing back his Knights, pushing and pushing. Pushing feverishly, relentlessly. He would scream and bark orders, every minute of every day. But it was no use. They were overcome and the Teutonic Order fell. He half expected to die as well. But when he didn't he took it and used his advantage. He called himself Prussia, hell; he called himself the _Awesome_ Prussia. Oh, what a fine game of charades he played. He acted as a full-of-himself, narcissist, egoistic, selfish nation. He acted as a criminal, a bully. People and nations worshipped him; others thought him an unloving bastard. He played that act so well; he even believed he was that person for a few moments. But he wasn't. No, not really. It was a shell, a cover. A shelter from his real problems. He practically drowned himself in beer to escape it. But did anyone notice? No. Did he seem to care? No. Did he really care? You bet.

He loved no one, no one loved him. Part of him accepted this. He lived a lonely life, with the occasional presence of Roderich, maybe Elizaveta here and there. But they thought of him as everyone else did.

But one, life-changing day, he and his brothers – who didn't care about him enough to even to be real brothers – agreed to join together. To form one, Germanic state. Of course, Prussia accepted this. He didn't care if he was giving up his life. Honestly, he didn't want to live anymore. After they would unite, Prussia would only be alive for a couple of days before he faded along with the other former Germanic nations. They all voted for Gilbert to be the one to teach the new country, who they decided to name Ludwig, about German culture. Ludwig would be known as Germany.

Finally, the day came, and the states united. A little baby boy was placed into Gilbert's possession, and, surprisingly, he fell in love with him. A brotherly love towards this innocent child. The albino took him home, taught him, and they became inseparable. He loved Ludwig. The abyss that replaced his heart was filled completely with a feeling and emotion he had never experienced before in his hundred years of living: love.

Soon, most of the states faded, then a few days later, he was the only one left. Now this, this was confusing. Why was he still here? He had no nation, no land, no people. Prussia didn't _exist_ anymore, but why was the personification of it still there?

Gilbert was pondering this as he carried baby Ludwig downstairs one morning to make him breakfast. As they sat at the table, a phrase escaped Gilbert's lips that he didn't want to stay.

"Why am I still here?"

Ludwig had looked up at his older brother and replied, "You're here, bwother, because I wove you and I want you to be here."

Gilbert smiled at his little brother's babyish voice, then frowned, absorbed his words. He's here because of Ludwig? Yes, it had occurred to him then that this made sense. Germany loved Prussia, the one who took care of him, raised him. Their bond was keeping him alive. Of course, now, he doesn't need it anymore, but the bond warded off his fading, and in the end, he never faded.

It occurred to him that this had also happened to the Italian brothers. When they united, the world expected only one of them to survive. Bets were placed, actually, on who would dominate the other. Gilbert had, in fact, bet on Lovino. Few voted on Feliciano, but not many. After all, Feliciano can be…you know. In the end, their brotherly love for each other kept them both alive. Lovino took on the name Romano, as Gilbert took on the name Prussia, refusing to have the same name as his brother.

But _kill Ivan_? Ivan wasn't that poor Russian boy Gilbert bullied as a child. No, not anymore. Now, he's one of the world's largest superpowers, and what was Prussia's title? The dead nation? The one who shouldn't even exist?

Gilbert fiercely gripped the bed and clenched his teeth. He was _not_ dead, and he was definitely _not_ weak. Just because Russia was powerful doesn't mean he can't be taken down. Gilbert smiled wickedly as he realized what he needed: not brute force, but _strategy_. If he could surprise Ivan, sneak up on him, Ivan would be shocked. Gilbert's grin widened as he imagined the surprise on Ivan's face as he looked down at the knife sticking out of his chest. Maybe Russia did keep him alive, but what if Ludwig could too? What if Ludwig can keep him from fading? What if history repeated itself?

Gilbert relied on these what if as he developed a plan. When he got to Ivan, he would do so many things he dreamed of doing to him. Dreams really can come true. Well, maybe if you're a homicidal personification without a nation.

But after Gilbert kills Ivan, what if Ludwig _couldn't_ save him?

Yet another day in the life of Gilbert Beilschmidt. He reluctantly sat out of bed, rubbed his blood-red eyes, and brushed his teeth with the tiny bottle of toothpaste he practically begged Ivan for. He took a bite out of a stale piece of bread, when all of a sudden, something sharp peck at his head.

"Ow!" Gilbert yelped, dropping his food. Before he could whip his head around to see who – or _what_ – did this, he felt another sharp prick to his head.

"Shit!" he yelled, scrambling away. When his eyes finally locked on the culprit, Gilbert gasped.

"No!" he grinned incredulously. Perched on his old wooden chair was a bird. Not just any bird, a bright yellow canary: Gilbird. Gilbert scooped up the bird into his hands. "Holy _shit_ , man! What are you doing here, Gilbird?" The yellow bird chirped in response, flying out of Gilbert's pale hands and landing in the white mop on Gilbert's head, nesting in it. Gilbert let out a loose laugh – which felt funny because of his lack of laughter, considering the situation he's in. Gilbert grinned like a maniac happy since the first time in forever.

Gilbird reminded him of…home. When Gilbert was a little boy, around 11 or 12, he was just starting out as a country. Besides Antonio and Francis, Gilbert didn't have many friends. The three of them put together however, were inseparable. Gilbert even came up with an awesome name for their little trio: the Bad Touch Trio. Everywhere they went, they caused trouble. They grew up together and even became less mature than as children. They did things from starting bar fights to lighting fireworks on Francis's ex-boyfriend's lawn. What was his name? 'M' something? Mark? Michael? _Matthew._ Yes, that was it. Canada. Although Gilbert would never admit it, mainly to avoid hurting Francis's feelings, he… _felt_ something for Matthew. But that's another story.

So, anyway, when he was 11 or 12, he was hanging out with Antonio and Francis in the woods. Out of nowhere, a bright, yellow streak whipped past Gilbert's head, so fast it was a blur. Then, after circling the trio multiple times, sat contentedly in Gilbert's hair.

" _Awesome_!" Gilbert remembered whispering, sweeping the canary into his hands. It looked uncomfortable at first, but then soon adapted, nuzzling his long, pale fingers.

Antonio laughed. "Looks like he likes you, Gil," he said in a thick Spanish accent. Gilbert smiled, looking up.

"You think?" he tilted his head curiously. "I think I should keep him. But he needs a name."

Antonio got that dreamy look in his eyes as he gazed at the sunset. "How about Lovino…" he said under his breath.

Francis smirked and laughed in his little French way. "Ohonhonhon, Toni. Who is this Lovino? Is he that _adorable_ little Italian, _mon ami_?" This caused Antonio to blush fiercely, stuttering. Gilbert interrupted them.

"I've got it!" he exclaimed proudly. "He deserves an awesome name, right? And I'm the most awesome person ever, right? So what about….Gilbird!"

And thus brings us to the unconditional love between bird and albino. Gilbird followed Gilbert everywhere, and Gilbert didn't try to stop him. That bird was everything he had, especially ever since Antonio and Francis left…

Gilbert shook his head, shaking away those memories as well. But he was too late. Because of his almost photographic memory, the old scenes came flashing back in a blur.

They were young, almost young adults. Spain had a little trouble with his economy, but Prussia was tall and strong. Taller than France, but only by a few inches. Antonio hadn't grown in so long, yet he still took care of that little country that lost his nation. Romano. Oh, how Antonio would talk about that boy every second of every day. Lovi this, and Lovi that. He knew it was awkward, being in love with a boy that was so _young_ , and, not to mention, seemingly not in love with Antonio. But soon, as years passed by, he grew and grew and grew. Italy and Romano joined the European Union, and their economy soared. Not as great as Alfred's or Arthur's, who, by the way, were so obviously deep in love, but extremely better than before. So Lovino Vargas grew, and soon was just about as tall as Antonio. The Spaniard didn't control him anymore, and you could see the way Romano looked at Antonio. They soon became a thing. Francis, as mentioned before, was in a relationship with Matthew. That ended soon enough when Matthew realized he had feelings for someone else. A red-eyed albino, to be particular. Although he flirts with every good-looking boy or girl he sees, Francis was, in fact, not in a relationship.

But one day, some awful happened. Ivan. That "insane fucker", as Gilbert nicknamed him, tore apart their friendship. Gilbert and Ludwig were just fooling around on the streets near Russia, and Ivan happened to cross their path. He had a dark, angry, agitated look on his face, but on sight of the Beilschmidt brothers, his creepy smile returned. Snowflakes fell, landing on his hair, blood-stained scarf and face. Before walking upon them however, two figures appeared in the distance, waving. As they came closer, Ivan could detect their familiar features. It was none other than Antonio and Francis.

Gilbert called out to them. "Toni! Franny! What's up, man? I haven't seen you guys in _forever_ ," Gilbert grinned. "It was so awesome of me to plan this vacation, right?"

The Frenchman and Spaniard greeted him and Ludwig with wide smiles, chitchatting amongst them, not knowing of a particular Russian watching very intently. He noted how weak they all looked: strong, but not nearly as strong and powerful as Ivan. He could take on all of them at once. He needed a few more people in his gang anyway, and this would give him a perfect chance to get revenge on Prussia for the terrors inflicted upon him as a child.

Ivan stalked them, pulling out a long, sharp knife, and pounced. Shocked expressions greeted him, turned suddenly into angry ones. Ivan swiveled around them, dodging fists that flew at him. This was just too easy. Spinning around, he delivered a harsh blow to Antonio's abdomen with the knife, a spurt of deep red blood splattering from the wound. Antonio let out a cry of pain, falling back as France tried to help him, whispering " _merde_ " repeatedly. Gilbert's eyes became dark, murderous as he let out a furious scream.

"You _don't_ fucking _touch_ my friends, you son of a bitch!" Gilbert attacked him ferociously, punching and kicking with all his might. But it was no use. Getting bored of these repetitive moves, Ivan turned onto the blonde. Ludwig scrambled to get away after realizing he couldn't defeat Ivan, but Ivan lunged, wrapping his arms around Ludwig's waist and bringing the nation to the ground. He served a hard blow to Ludwig's face, making his nose bleed. He whipped the knife across, and a deep slit appeared on Ludwig's cheek. Gilbert's reaction was just what Russia wanted, but maybe a bit beyond.

"THAT'S _IT!_ " the dead nation screamed, then landed a roundhouse kick right to Russia's head, the force jolting Ivan aside and off of Ludwig. But just as fast as he went down, he shot back up, his eyes gleaming with something that replaced the former pleasure.

With a snarl, Ivan lunged at Gilbert, moving his fist forward and fast, straight to the middle of Gilbert's chest so hard it literally knocked the wind out of him. Francis was busy with Antonio's wound, tearing off part of his clothing to serve as a bandage. He looked up at Gilbert with pleading eyes, begging for forgiveness as he mouthed the words _I'm sorry_. He took the gasping Spaniard and dragged him out of sight.

But Gilbert couldn't focus on that right now. He was too worried about his little brother.

"Lud…wig," Gilbert gasped, getting weak. Ivan had him in an inescapable grip, smiling giddily. "Run." The German rose from the ground, sending one last apologetic glance at the captured albino.

"I'll come back for you, _bruder_! I promise!" Ludwig yelled, running away. " _Ich liebe dich_ , Gilbert!" And soon, he was out of sight too.

"Da, you will be coming home with me!" Ivan laughed manically.

* * *

Eventually, Ludwig came back, and Gilbert escaped from Ivan's grasp. Russia the country didn't have him. No, it was Ivan. But Ludwig helped him escaped, only for Gilbert to be caught by Ivan many more times.

But that

Was the last time

He ever saw

Francis or Antonio

Ever

Again.

* * *

 **A/N:** I just love fillers, don't you? Hah, guess you're going to have to wait and see how he's gonna manage to kill Russia. Too bad.

Anyway, guys, thank you so much for the reviews! I'm so so so so soooooooooooooooooo sorry about the hiatus! Next chapter won't take as long(I hope). Just try to understand that I'm really busy. I've been trying to make my chapters longer if you can tell.

Welp I guess that's all. Gilbert signing off.


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